Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
“Got it.” I shoot her a quick salute. “Wine only for those of age. Ice cream and sodas for everyone else.”
“Thanks, but I’m good. Ronny will probably have a Coke. She’s on duty right now.”
“Makes sense.” You can drink around your own kids, but you probably shouldn’t be throwing them back when you’re in charge of someone else’s.
“Can I have a thoda, Uncle Matty?”
“A . . .” Soda! “Sure?” I glance Mila’s way. “Five-year-olds are okay with fizzy stuff, right?”
Mila holds up a hand. “I’m unqualified to offer advice.”
“Ah, shit, I’m sure it’ll be fine.” Fuck. Again! I glance down at Clo, who sends me a long-suffering look.
“Don’t worry. I won’t tell Mommy. This time.”
I suck at this whole kid thing.
“Maybe you should get Uncle Matty a swear jar,” Mila suggests.
“For him to whisper the bad words into?” Her tone sounds full of doubt.
“It’s more about teaching Uncle Matty not to swear, because with a swear jar, every time he says a naughty word, he has to put money into it.”
“Who gets to keep the money?” Clo asks suspiciously.
“If it’s your swear jar, you do.”
“I need a jar!” the kid says, pivoting to face me, and I’m sure I see dollar signs light up in her eyes. “And then you can say all the bad words you need.”
“I’ll end up broke,” I protest with a chuckle.
“That is a distinct possibility.” Mila has been to enough dinners to know this to be true.
“Jar later. Let’s hit the bar for now. While I can still afford to.”
“I wanna stay with Mila. I need to hear more about the jar.”
“We can do that,” she says, taking Clo’s hand.
“Fine, but no scheming,” I say, waggling a finger between the two.
At the bar, I ask a bewildered server if soda is illegal for five-year-olds. Apparently, it’s not, though a nearby group of mothering types eyes me with such distaste, I almost ask the server to stick a vodka in it for the five-year-old.
Anyway, I order enough soda and snacks to fuel an army. I also get a few cans of alcohol-free mojitos for Mila and her companions, plus a beer for myself. As I turn from the counter, arms full of contraband, I wonder if Letty might have reservations about me taking Clodagh out again. That is, if I take her home buzzed to fuck on sugar.
Hmm. Come to think of it, I’ll be the one dealing with her for the next couple of hours. Maybe I should’ve gotten her water, I think as I belatedly come to realize my footsteps are slowing. It’s not because I’m reluctant to return to Clodagh with all this junk, but more like my brain is trying to make sense of something. Of what I’m seeing as, through the crowds, I spot my niece talking to a woman. Short and slight in stature, especially hunkered low in front of Clodagh, she seems familiar somehow. Maybe it’s the coat she’s wearing. Emerald green. Or maybe it’s the way she flicks her dark hair over her shoulder.
Mila still has hold of Clo’s hand, seemingly part of the conversation. But it’s the woman who has my attention, everything around me seeming to shift into slow motion. Objects and people around me blur, my vision tunneled and focused. Though I see her as clear as day, and my anticipation dials high as I wait for her to turn.
“Watch it, mister!”
I come back to my surroundings as a group of kids is herded across my path. I momentarily lose sight of Clo and . . . I pick up the pace.
“Maltesers!” Clodagh reaches for the packet balanced in the crook of my arm.
“Who was that?” I ask as my gaze sweeps the space for her. “The woman you were just talking to?”
“The one in the green coat?” Mila asks. “No idea. She stopped to talk to Clodagh when she heard her accent.”
“She picked up my wothe when I dropped it.” Clodagh pulls a bottle of Sprite from my hand. “She’s ’merican too.”
“Did she say where she was from?”
Clo shakes her head. Then shakes the bottle.
“She was perfectly nice,” Mila puts in. “And I didn’t take my eyes off—”
“Course you didn’t.” I don’t mean to be curt, but I can’t throw off this prickling sensation. It’s like fire ants are crawling all over me, like if I don’t find the answer, they’ll start to bite. “I just thought I recognized her.” Or I hoped. “It’s fine,” I add, plastering a smile across my face.
“The lady was buying tickets to another show,” Clo says, passing her soda back, impatient for it to be opened.
“Was she?” I loop my fingers around the top.
Clodagh nods. “She just moved to London and said hearing me talk reminded her of ’merica.”
“That’s nice, darlin’.” I begin to twist the bottle top, though the violent-sounding hiss makes me tighten it again.